"I told you everything I know," she said, and if she was lying, she should have considered a career in theater.
I nodded and reached for the door handle. I had the door half open when I felt her hand on my forearm. Her fingers were cool.
"Adam," Mira said, and for an instant it seemed she was about to say something important, "good luck."
"Yeah," I said.
From Frishman I turned south to Dizengoff Street. At Dizengoff Square all the benches were taken. Dogs on leashes barked greetings at each other. Around the central fountain strolled men and women. Some were dressed in light, airy clothes appropriate for the climate, while others were encased in heavier, more formal attire, which they had brought with them from much cooler lands and from which they could as yet not bear to part. There was laughter and chatter and a sense of optimism. For a fleeting moment it seemed that this was not a country that had just emerged from a terrible war and whose very existence was precarious, but a normal, peaceful land inhabited by people who were not intimately acquainted with disaster and forever fearful of it.
I stopped at a kiosk and bought a bottle of soda that purported to taste like oranges. At least it was cold. I drank it as I continued south to Gan Meir Park, where more of Tel Aviv's inhabitants were socializing, and where a group of young boys was kicking around a soccer ball across the expansive lawn. The children ranged from ten to twelve, and I couldn't help thinking that but for a tragic turn of fate, Willie Ackerland might have been one of them.
I thought of calling Henrietta and confessing my sins to her.
I dismissed the notion. For one thing, she did not have a phone in her apartment. For another, I was just getting started with this case.
Then my mind drifted to where I did not wish it to go.
Mira Roth.
Despite her severe, angular features, I found her appealing. This was heightened by who she was—a soldier, one who was not above meting out violent punishment. Unlike Rachel Weiss, Mira would not have scorned me for breaking the fingers of a man who was tormenting her. She would have understood my actions. She would have understood me.
The man I was now was not the same man who had lived before Auschwitz, before he'd lost everything and everyone. That man was no more. Most women would not be able to understand the man I had become. They would be frightened of me; they would shy away. But Mira would not. On the contrary, she would appreciate what I had done, both in Israel and in Germany. To her it would seem right and proper and just. Maybe that was part of her appeal, that I believed she would fully and completely accept who I was.
I finished the soda and tossed the empty bottle in a trash can. The bottle banged against the side of the can, and a scrawny ginger cat bounded out, screeching at me for disturbing his scavenging.
"I'm sorry," I sincerely said to the cat, not for a moment feeling ridiculous for doing so. I knew what it was like to live off scraps.
Continuing south, I couldn't shake off the feeling that Mira had lied to me, that she was keeping something from me. I wasn't certain of it, because she'd been so forthright about everything else, including the botched raid in which she took part, and because she'd seemed so honest when I pressed her on the matter. But to my cynical policeman's eye, Mira had looked
This bothered me on more than one level. There was the possibility that whatever information Mira harbored—if she indeed did harbor any—might have proved useful to my investigation, and there was the personal aspect. I was attracted to her, and I did not want to believe that she would lie to my face. Yet, this was what I did believe, though I could not imagine a reason why she would do so. For without Mira's cooperation, I would have no case. I would not know that Esther Grunewald and Willie Ackerland had been murdered. Mira was eager to avenge these murders. Why would she hamper my investigation by keeping information from me?
At the corner of Tchernichovsky and Hamaccabi, I debated the wisdom of making this an early night. I was tired, and I had two new books to read. But I did not want to be alone with my thoughts in my apartment just yet. I kept on walking, made the turn to Allenby Street, and a few minutes later entered Greta's Café.
The place was nearly full and Greta waved hello to me while carrying a tray of drinks to a table of four. She was too busy to chat, which was a shame because I felt like talking.
I sat at my table, smoking, playing chess, surrounded by the ruckus of laughter and boisterous conversations, and tried to clear my mind. I gave up after an hour, said a quick goodbye to Greta, who seemed sad to see me leave, and walked back up Allenby Street.
